“Did you guys make all these?” Jake asked gloomily.
“No, as a matter of fact. Sort of curious, but the guy who did the shooting seemed to come into the room, go to the window, and stay there. He made some footprints, but not many, considering. He didn’t have nervous feet.”
“Nervous feet,” Jake repeated.
The lab man seemed to be searching for words. “He wasn’t real excited, if you know what I mean.”
“A pro,” Toad Tarkington prompted.
“Maybe,” the FBI agent said. “Maybe not. But he’s a cool customer.”
The military curfew was announced at seven p.m., to take effect at midnight. Anyone on the streets between the hours of midnight and seven a.m. would be subject to arrest and prosecution by military tribunal for failure to obey emergency orders. Anyone on the streets in a vehicle between the hours of seven a.m. and midnight would also be subject to arrest. This curfew would be in effect for forty-eight hours, unless it was ended sooner or extended.
The order was news from coast to coast along with the murder of Supreme Court Chief Justice Harlan Longstreet and the subway massacre. The death toll continued to mount as two of the wounded succumbed to their injuries. One of them was a pregnant woman.
The mood of the nation, as reflected by man-on-the-street television interviews, was outrage. Politicians of stature were calling for an invasion of Colombia. Several wanted to declare war. Senator Bob Cherry was in the latter group. Ferried from newsroom to newsroom by limo, he abandoned his point-by-point criticism of Vice-President Quayle’s efforts and lambasted the administration as unprepared and incompetent. He demanded the troops be pulled out of Washington and sent to Colombia.
On the other hand, Senator Hiram Duquesne and several of his colleagues journeyed to the Vice-President’s office in the Executive Office Building that evening to offer their wholehearted support. They appeared before the cameras afterward and, in a rare show of unity, laid aside all partisan differences to praise the Vice-President’s handling of the crisis.
Most of the people in the nation spent the evening in front of their televisions. One of those who watched was T. Jefferson Brody. He was sneering at Duquesne’s image on the tube when the telephone rang.
The man calling he had never met, but he had heard his name several times and vaguely remembered that he did something or other for Freeman McNally.
“McNally’s dead.”
The news stunned Brody. There were a hundred questions he wanted to ask, but since he didn’t know where the man was calling from—the line might be tapped—he refrained.
After cradling the instrument, he used the remote control to turn off the television.
Freeman dead! First Willie Teal, now Freeman.
T. Jefferson pursed his lips and silently whistled. Well, it’s a dangerous business, no question about that. That’s why they made so much money at it.
What was he doing for Freeman? Oh, yes, the senators. Well, that was spilt milk. But it was a hook he might use later on somebody else’s behalf. If and when. He would see.
And because his mind worked that way, Brody’s thoughts immediately turned to Sweet Cherry Lane, the big-titted, cock-stroking bitch who had conned and robbed him. Freeman had been unwilling to assist in that little project, but now Freeman and his reasons—whatever they were—were gone, leaving Brody in possession of the field. Bernie Shapiro hadn’t been very enthusiastic either, but he would approach him again.
So T. Jefferson sat staring at the blank television screen and thinking graphic thoughts about what he would like to do to Sweet Cherry Lane. His lips twisted into a smile. This Army curfew would be over in a few days, and then … Ah, yes. And then!
At nine that night Toad Tarkington and Jack Yocke sat in a military pool vehicle with the engine and heater going, trying to stay warm. Yocke was behind the wheel. Since he knew the city so well Grafton had appointed him duty driver. Toad sat in the backseat.
The two naval officers had spent the evening at the Pentagon drafting the orders and plans for the chairman to sign and had picked up Yocke at the Post fifteen minutes ago.
Through the windshield they watched Jake Grafton and an army officer huddled over a map spread out on the hood of a jeep. The jeep was parked on the sidewalk under an apartment house entrance awning.
The rain continued to fall, drumming on the roof of the car in which Toad and Yocke sat.
“Grafton seems like an awful quiet guy for a successful military officer,” Yocke said just to break the silence.
Toad snorted. “You’re a reporter.”
“What d’ya mean?”
“The guy can talk your leg off. You haven’t heard him at the office! What you gotta have to get ahead in the military is credibility. People have to pay attention when you voice an opinion, they have to believe that you know what you’re talking about. Grafton’s got credibility with a capital C.”
Yocke digested this information as he watched Grafton and the army officer. The army guy was wearing camouflage utilities, a thick coat, and a helmet. In contrast, Jake Grafton wore washed khakis, a green flight-deck coat, and a bridge cap with a khaki cover.
Yocke had had a good look at that green coat when Grafton got out of the car. It had grease stains on it in several places, no doubt souvenirs from one of the ships Grafton had been on. The trousers were no better. In spite of being washed so many times they looked faded, the grease stains were still visible. Sitting in the backseat, Tarkington was togged out about like Grafton, except that his heavy coat was khaki.
“Where do you navy officers get grease on your uniforms?”
“Flight deck,” Toad muttered, and declined to say anything else.
Yocke looked at his watch. He would like to find a few minutes to call Tish Samuels. Maybe after the next stop.
Grafton came back to the car and climbed into the passenger seat. His coat and hat were dripping. He left the door ajar, so the overhead courtesy light stayed on. The captain extracted a map from his pocket and studied it. After a few moments he held it so the other two men could see it.
“Okay. They are searching door to door in these grids here and here and here.” His finger rested on each in turn. “This third one they’ll finish in about a half hour. There’s just time for that battalion to do one more before knocking off for the night. Which one do you think they ought to do?”
Toad and Yocke stared at the map. “This is a little like roulette,” Toad remarked.
“Yep,” Jake Grafton said. “Go ahead. Pick a winner.”
Yocke pointed. “Why not this one? It has some warehouses and some public housing projects. Those are likely. These projects—you could run four or five Colombians who don’t speak a word of English into a room and they could stay for weeks with no one the wiser. And even if the neighbors are suspicious, they won’t call the cops. They know better.”
“Sold me.” Grafton sighed. He got out of the car and went back to the jeep with the radio equipment.
In about a minute he returned. “Drive,” he said.
With the car in motion, Jake turned to Toad. “Your wife home tonight?”
“Yessir.”
“Think she’d like to ride around with us?”
“Sure. If we swing by that way, I’ll run up and get her.”
Toad gave Jack Yocke the address. When they pulled up in front, Jake said, “Tell her to put on a uniform, as old and grungy as she’s got.”
Toad nodded and walked quickly into the building.
“Nice of you to think of that,” Jack Yocke said.
“She’s only got ten more days of leave left, and I can’t spare him.”
“Off the record, way off, what do you do over at the Pentagon, anyway?”
Grafton chuckled. “Well, I’m the senior officer in a little group of seven or eight people that do the staff work on military cooperation with antidrug efforts.”
“That doesn’t tell me much.”
“Hmm. For example,
we more or less have one carrier in the Gulf of Mexico and eastern Caribbean on a full-time basis now. That was one of my projects. I lost.”
“Lost? Isn’t that a good idea?”
“That’s just the trouble. Sounds like a terrific idea on the evening news or when some politician makes a speech in Philadelphia. Have a shipload of planes fly around over the ocean looking for boats and take pictures and call the Coast Guard when they see one. So a carrier home from six or seven months in the Mediterranean has to forgo maintenance and go sail around down there. The squadrons have money for a limited number of flight hours for each crew during the turnaround between cruises. With that money they have to train the new guys and keep the experienced crews sharp. Instead they spend the money to fly around in circles over the water. No one gets trained. The ships and planes don’t get the proper maintenance. And when they’re finished down south, we send them back to the Med.”
“But it sounds good in Philadelphia,” Yocke said. “Honestly, that is important.”
“No doubt. But if we have to send untrained people into combat in Libya or the Middle East, they’re going to die. They haven’t had the necessary training. We’ll lose airplanes we can’t afford to lose. And even if we dance between the raindrops and don’t have to fight, the ships will need more maintenance later, a lot more. Prophet that I am, I can tell you that when that day comes the money won’t be available. Congress will say, Sorry about that. Haven’t you heard about the savings-and-loan disaster and the deficit and the peace dividend?
“And our sailors and junior aviators don’t want to spend their lives at sea. So they get out of the service and we have to spend megabucks to recruit and train new people. It’s really a vicious cycle.”
Grafton took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “My group documents the cost of the choices. We explain the options to the decision makers. That’s what I do.”
Yocke wanted to keep Grafton talking. He changed the subject. “I’ve been looking at these soldiers today. They look pretty young to be carrying loaded rifles through the streets of a city.”
“They are young. But they’re good kids. They joined the Army to get a little piece of the American dream—a job, money for an education later, to learn a skill, to earn some respect. Young men have been joining the military for those reasons for thousands of years.”
“Can they fight?”
“You bet your ass. They’re as good as any soldiers who ever wore an American uniform.”
“But they’re not trained for the way you’re using them.”
“Nope.”
The door to the apartment building opened and Rita Moravia and Toad Tarkington came out. Jack Yocke suppressed a grin. Moravia was a beautiful woman, but dressed in khaki trousers, a heavy coat, boater hat and flying boots, she didn’t look the part.
“Hey, Rita,” Jake Grafton said.
“Captain. Mr. Yocke.”
“Jack. Please.”
“Thanks for including me on your expedition. What’s on the agenda?”
“Let’s go watch the guys do a housing project.” Jake consulted the map. “The Jefferson projects. You know where that is?” he asked Yocke.
“Yeah. I’ve been there before.” Yocke pulled the transmission lever into drive and got the car under way.
The supermarket parking lot was unexpectedly crowded. Charon walked between the parked cars and by the people pushing shopping carts to the pay phone mounted on the wall, beside a row of newspaper vending stands. He glanced around to ensure no one was within earshot. The shoppers were too busy with their own affairs. Charon peeled back the leather glove on his left wrist to reveal his watch. Then he removed the telephone from its hook. He read the instructions. No coin needed for emergency calls. Saved a quarter, anyway.
He dialed 911.
The phone rang three times before a woman said, “Police emergency.”
He spoke quickly, as fast as possible. “There’s a woman being murdered in an apartment house on New Hampshire Avenue. I can hear the screams.” He gave the address. “Better hurry.” He hung up quickly and walked back to his car, which was parked in the darkest corner of the lot with a fringe of trees and shrubs behind, blocking the view. Still, anyone in the lot could see him clearly if they only took the time to look. Predictably they didn’t.
He removed his gear from the trunk and carried it twenty feet away. Then he got out the plastique and the timing device and put them on the floor of the driver’s seat. He inserted the fuse in the plastique and very carefully set the timer. He watched it tick on the LCD display for several seconds. Satisfied, he reached into the backseat and got the one-gallon milk jug. He put that on the floor beside the plastique and unscrewed the lid. Between the lid and the jug he had used a piece of plastic wrap to ensure a good seal. Now he peeled it off and tossed it on the seat with the red plastic screw cap.
The vapors from the gasoline in the jug would fill the interior of the car. When the bomb went off in an hour the gasoline vapors would enhance the explosion and ensure that a very hot fire resulted. If everything worked as he thought it would, there would be no fingerprints left for the police. The confusion and uncertainty caused by the bomb would also slow the manhunt.
He had rigged up a half pound of plastique. That was a lot. Maybe too much. Too bad he hadn’t had time to play with this stuff and get a better feel for the proper quantity to use.
The car keys were still in the ignition. Better remove those. No use tempting some kid to break the window before this thing pops. He put the keys under the seat.
What else?
That’s it. He pushed down the door lock and carefully shut the door. It clicked. He then pushed hard until it closed completely with another click.
The first police officers on the scene double-parked. The driver locked his car door and stood on the sidewalk listening while his partner walked around the car as he checked to see if the shotgun was loaded. It was. He ensured the safety was on.
“I don’t hear any screams.”
“Me either.”
They had just started up the stairs when the building literally blew apart. Both officers died instantly. As the fireball expanded it seared the paint on cars a hundred feet away.
The backup officers two blocks away on New Hampshire saw the explosion and called it in. As the seconds ticked away the rubble heap that had been a building became a roaring inferno.
The first fire truck arrived four minutes after the explosion. Firemen flaked out their hoses and opened hydrants. More police cars rushed to the scene and additional fire trucks were directed in.
Sixteen minutes after the initial blast a green 1968 Volkswagen beetle parked a hundred feet away from the apartment building blew up. Investigators later estimated the car contained four pounds of Semtex, a Czechoslovakian plastic explosive. Pieces of the vehicle were found on the roofs of buildings as far away as a hundred and twenty yards.
Seven firemen working on a pumping truck parked beside the VW were killed in the blast. Flying debris decapitated a policeman fifty feet away. The glass in every window on the block that faced the street was blown in, cutting one woman so badly she bled to death. Over a dozen people were injured by flying glass and debris.
The police had sealed the block when Jake Grafton and his junior officers arrived. They stood for a few minutes at the police line and watched the fire in the center of the block rage unchecked. They could just see members of the police bomb squad going down the rows of parked cars, checking each one.
Jake Grafton sent Toad to make a phone call. The military had better have some EOD teams—explosive ordnance disposal—nearby if needed.
Bombs. Terrorists? Or our shooter that lacked the nervous feet?
Nervous feet. What a silly thing to say. The assassin didn’t have nervous feet.
“Captain Grafton?” A uniformed patrolman asked the question.
“Yes.”
“There’s an FBI agent at police headquarters asking for you,
sir. They want you to go down there, if you can.”
“Sure. Tell them I’m on my way.”
“Okay.”
Jake looked around. Yocke was talking to Rita. He would know where police headquarters were. Jake had no idea.
It wasn’t a real forest, of course. Here on the side of the ridge in Rock Creek Park where Henry Charon stood the traffic noise was loud. Too loud. It would drown out the noises he needed to hear if anyone came along. Not that that was very likely on a winter’s night like this. Rain, cold, wind. Perfect.
He continued slowly up the ridge, making no noise at all as he moved across the wet ground without a flashlight. On his back was a pack that contained his supplies. A sleeping bag on a string hung from one shoulder.
His weapons were in a long gym bag he carried in his right hand. Three grenades, a disassembled rifle, and plenty of ammunition. Under his coat he carried a pistol. The silencer was in his pocket.
He found the little notch in the rocks without difficulty. His woods sense led him unerringly to it. He felt around carefully. Good! The cache in the crack above his head was undisturbed.
He lowered the bags to the ground and slipped away from the cave. He circled it in the darkness, taking his time, pausing often to listen and look. In ten minutes he returned to the cave and began unpacking.
He fixed a can of hot stew on a Sterno burner, taking care that the light of the small flame was not visible from the slope below. When he had finished eating and had cleaned up, he got the radio down from the crack where he had cached it and inserted the earpiece. Then he pulled out the antenna and settled down cross-legged in the dry, sheltered area at the rear of the cave to listen.
First the television audio. Since they were covering the crisis on a continuous basis, the networks had a habit of summarizing the news every half hour. He didn’t have long to wait.
The chaos on New Hampshire Avenue exceeded his expectations. No fingerprints, no evidence for the police to sift from the apartment. Henry Charon smiled. He didn’t smile often and never for someone else’s benefit. His smiles were strictly for himself.
05.Under Siege v5 Page 45